


Jeopardy Friendly

by neverwhyonlywho



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, TARDIS ficathon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 15:06:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverwhyonlywho/pseuds/neverwhyonlywho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He feels pretty confident that the long rickety table in the linen room is not the best place for this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jeopardy Friendly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ValueTurtle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValueTurtle/gifts).



> Written for the TARDIS ficathon. Prompt: "Linen/Spare Bedding Room."

He feels pretty confident that the long rickety table in the linen room is not the best place for this.

Rose doesn’t let him linger too long on it, though; she’s got her hands rucking up his jumper before he can suggest a different location, even as his mind is spinning, thinking:  _floor? too hard; wall? too many shelves in here, would hurt her_ ; he draws floorplans of the TARDIS in his head, and his groan of frustration when he realizes the nearest soft surface is several hallways away turns into a grunt of surprise when she licks his nipple.

“Thinkin’ too hard,” she informs him, and he can hear her smile. “Off, off, want this bloody thing off, want to feel you.”

He obliges her, shucking off leather and jumper both. She takes hold of his ears as soon as he’s got the thinner garment over his head, getting a thorough snog out of him before he’s even got his arms free, and that’s not fair play, not _really_ , but her mouth is warm and inviting, her tongue flirting with his, and it’s captivating enough to make him forget about the sleeves entirely until she nips gently at his bottom lip.

She’s humming, he realizes—humming like a hive of bees, warm and happy in the sun. It’s a deeply appreciative noise, and it makes him recall all the other noises he can coax out of her, the hushed and the shouted, the needy and the satisfied, and no, on second thought, maybe the long rickety table in the linen room is the perfect place for this after all.

That’s when he remembers he’s got hands, so he frees them.

He grabs her bum and pulls her forward to the edge of the table, pulls her hard against him and presses himself against her, hard. That always brings a noise like a whimper from her throat, and he _loves_ it, no less because it’s something that can only be roughly translated in words like _anticipation_ and _need_ and _yes_ , in physiological responses that he knows so well by now, heat and wet and brown eyes gone beautifully dark.

By now he knows that Rose loves to be hugged and grasped, held hard and held steady. So he does that, holds her fast and rocks against her and nips at her neck, and when she shivers, he feels it.

She wraps her legs around his hips and tries to blindly unfasten his trousers at the same time. It didn’t work the last time and it doesn’t work this time, but she still growls into his mouth, and he chuckles into hers.

“Let me,” he murmurs, moving her hands aside, and he unfastens her jeans instead.

“Oi!” She swats at his fingers, but still braces herself and lifts her hips for him so he can peel them off. “No fair.”

“Nope!” He shoots her a cheeky grin, kneeling down to tug them the rest of the way off. She doesn’t resist, so he plants a matching pair of kisses on her shins for her compliance. “Not fair in the slightest. I’ll make it up to you, though, not to worry. Lay back.”

She shakes her head, poking him in the shoulder with her toe. “You’re not gettin’ away with that. Come _here_.”

He locks eyes with her. This battle of wills is familiar, and he knows what’s on either side of it—it doesn’t matter who wins, it’s going to be fantastic either way, so he steels his gaze and watches her breath catch, just the slightest bit. She’s hiding the smallest of smiles; she knows this game, too.

“It wasn’t a request, Rose.”

He’d meant to give the words a hard edge, to say it in a way that would brook no argument, but it comes out quiet and low instead, the threat implicit.

When she bites her lip and shifts, just so, he knows it hit the mark.

But she doesn’t move. She’s silent, watching him, hardly breathing, though he can feel her pulse quick under his hands, in the hollows behind her ankles—or maybe that’s just his own, beating in double time.

He stands, grave-faced. If he were fully dressed, he’d tug at his cuffs for effect, to let her know that he’s going to get down to business. But he’s _not_ fully dressed, so he settles for a roll of his shoulders and a halfhearted adjustment of his belt. He’s hard, he’s _been_ hard, what with Rose in her knickers and her unbuttoned shirt sitting there, flushed and waiting for him, but adjusting his trousers only reminds him of it, makes it more difficult to focus on taking his time.

He brings his face a hairsbreadth from hers, brushes his nose against hers—she’s close enough to taste, and the brief glance of her lips across his is electric.

She doesn’t back down, not a centimeter.

He grins.

“I said,” He tucks her shirt down off her shoulders, and she shrugs it off the rest of the way, not breaking eye contact, “ _Lay back_.”

“And I said _come here_.” Her eyes are warm with amusement, her grin is tongue-touched, and yes, all right, she’s bested him—for now.

He kisses her for it and she sighs, opening her mouth to him at once. It’s so easy to get lost in her this way, so easy when her tongue is eager to meet his, when her fingers brush the short hair at the base of his scalp, and when she’s leaning back, back, inviting him down with her.

He goes, willingly.

There's some shifting and a laugh from Rose when he attempts to undo her bra clasp on the way down and doesn't quite make it. He settles for planting kisses on her collarbone, the tops of her breasts, her sternum, as she arches up and reaches back to unclasp it herself. Not that that's settling at all, not in the slightest, but he gives her his own hum of appreciation when the clasp comes free and her breasts follow soon after. They're smooth under his hands, her nipple firm under his tongue, and there, that makes her squirm again, a little more insistently this time. 

(It's nice, the way her hips nudge against him, the way her back arches just a little, so he makes her do it again.)

Rose is lovely like this, lovely from any angle, in any language, in any universe, and he's happy to tell her so. His gift for language rests mostly in describing big, sweeping cosmic forces, though--the turning of planets and the births of stars--so he thinks of a word to describe her and falls short, finding himself murmuring the same thing over and over against her skin instead: _beautiful, beautiful, beautiful_.

He's busy kissing it into her navel when she finally breaks.

"Doctor." There's a note of strain in her voice, a breathlessness there. He pauses, listening, but that only produces a low _mmph_ of frustration. She accompanies it with a hand on his head, fingertips rubbing over close-cropped hair at the back of his neck, behind his ear. Rose's hands are small, but oh, oh, they're brilliant and expressive, and this is benediction, permission and desire, all wrapped up in one impatient caress.

He nips her skin gently, a reminder for patience, but that only makes it worse--her fingers curl, nails scratching at the base of his scalp, and that's enough to make him seriously reconsider the benefits of waiting.

"Please," she says, and the need in her voice makes his decision for him. He grins against the skin of her belly, and she laughs under her breath.

"Smug bastard."

"Absolutely," he agrees.

He slips his fingers under the waistband of her knickers and tugs them down, delivering an affectionate nip to the soft ridge of her hipbone on his way. He has to retreat to slide them the rest of the way off, though, and he’s usually impatient to return to his rightful place between her thighs, but it’s nice, this tension, and so he hangs back a moment, pocketing her knickers and admiring the view instead.

“You’ve got to have at least three pairs of those in there,” she points out, raising her head to look down at him and quirk an eyebrow. “’s a wonder you can find anything else. One of these days you’re going to go for your psychic paper and pull that out instead.”

“Bigger on the inside,” he reminds her. “And it’s at least six pairs, thank you. How many‘ve you got left? I’m planning to collect them all, let you walk around the TARDIS without.”

Her laugh is sweet in his ears, and it sets him grinning, leaves him with that stupid, happy, giddy glow so characteristic of his time with her. He settles back in close to her for it, kissing and nipping at the inside of her thigh.

“Now,” he says, and _there’s_ the firm tone he was looking for. “Lay back and be still.”

This time, she obeys.

He splays his hand low across her belly, and the first brush of his thumb over her clit makes her breathe in sharply and him forget to breathe at all. He knew she'd be ready for him but _oh_ , is she ever, and the slickness of her makes his mind wander down a path that's half memory and half fantasy: the feeling of sliding along her, inside of her, his fingers first and then later his cock, and the way it always feels like she's drawing him in, welcoming him home.

She's best responsive under a gentle hand, and so his strokes and flicks are light and teasing, thumb circling around her. He gives her a slow, constant, unyielding pressure that makes her breath come up short, makes her toes curl in the effort not to move. 

He wonders, distantly, if it’s wrong to give her orders and then deliberately push her to the point where she can no longer stand to obey them.

He decides that it doesn’t matter—she loves it.

And she does, clearly; the longer he keeps it up the more restless she gets, hitched breaths turning to groans when he stands to change his angle, groans turning to whimpers when he eases off, and she’s making an honest effort not to move, though it’s in her nature to—she’s responsive, she’s brilliant, Rose is, and he likes to see that coil wind tighter, likes to see it snap back in a blaze of filthy words and lost restraint.

Finally, finally, whether in unthinking reflex or deliberate rebellion, she arches her hips against his hand. He presses her back down a little less than gently, and that’s when she turns the corner, that’s when she gets mouthy, grits out a needy “ _Fuck—_ ” and it crackles down his spine, goes straight to his cock. 

He brushes her clit one last time before slipping two fingers of his free hand inside of her, and she makes a noise like triumph and want all wrapped up together, a sound that goes high pitched and breathy when he strokes her, beckoning.

“Hmm?” He doesn’t look up, keeps his eyes on his hands, on Rose spread out beneath him, because if her eyes look as hungry as her voice sounds he’s going to shove into her right here, right on this table, and he wants to at least have some choice in the matter.

“Your trousers are still on,” she pants, arching her hips to meet his strokes, and he lets her do that—can only watch, mesmerized, as she takes him. His fingers, at least. For now. “Why are your trousers still on? Want you.” He presses deep, strokes the way he knows she likes, and she groans. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, want you.”

He takes half a moment to debate making her wait a little longer, but that’s half a moment too long. The next thing he knows, she’s sat herself up and is yanking his belt loose, fumbling hurriedly at his trousers, cursing when she doesn’t get the button the first time.

She glances up at him and he can hardly breathe—her eyes are ablaze, dark and burning, burning like a star on the cusp of going supernova, beautiful and unstoppable.

And then all at once he’s helping her get the zip down without catching it on anything important, and then it’s down and she shoves his pants down over his erection and out of the way too, and if he had a thought for anything else in the world he might bother to take his trousers off and get them out of the way but no, no, they hardly exist anymore, it’s just him and Rose and this structurally questionable table, his hand at the back of Rose’s neck and his mouth on Rose’s mouth, Rose’s knees up at his ribs and Rose’s hand on his cock, stroking him and guiding him home.

Then he’s there, then he’s pressing inside of her, and he’s the one sighing and she’s the one making a deep sound of gratification. His brain dimly registers that they’ve got it backward, that it’s usually the other way around, but it doesn’t matter—he gives her a moment to adjust, forehead pressed to forehead, and it’s not long before her body is asking him to move.

His first thrusts are gentle, though he knows she wants more. She’ll tell him when she’s had enough of this. Let her demand it out of him, he thinks—Rassilon knows it’s freely given, all of it, whatever she wants, anything, everything.

It’s her heels against his lower back that press him closer, and he answers by grabbing her bum with both hands, pulling her flush against him again. He keeps his movements measured, though she’s _burning_ and so, so wet and it’s good, so good to be inside of her.

But the way her eyes close, the way her lips part when he grinds against her is worth all that self-control, worth every second of it. Still, it’s untenable—when he changes the angle it’s the feeling of Rose tightening around him, the choked _yes_ from her throat that begins to undo him.

He’s murmuring to her, he’s got to be talking nonsense, babbling in between kisses, but she gets the point; he sees her nodding, nodding, and then she’s laying back on the table, all of her laid out before him, hair strewn around her head in a disheveled golden halo, her lips swollen and glossed from kissing, breasts and belly and her gorgeous thighs, all there, all the soft dips and rises of her universe, the bending of time and space that define the planes of her body, infinite and beautiful.

Rose arches her hips, and he shoves into her. Does it again, and again, and there, he finds the angle that he had before and she’s not quiet now, not at all, grasping at him and calling his name.

He watches himself take her. Brushes her clit with his thumb again, light and persistent, the same constant pressure as before, and this time she makes a sound like a groan and a sob. _Yesyesyes,_ he hears her say, _don’t stop, right there right there right there_ , and that alone is nearly enough to get him there, but no, she needs to go first, he has to make her go first, so he keeps his eyes on his work—can’t look at her face, shouldn’t see the arch of her back, or he’ll be over the edge in seconds.

He closes his eyes and thinks of the gravity wells of collapsing stars.

He thinks of being inexorably pulled in, of all that matter, all that energy gathering in one place, condensing down to a single point of togetherness. And in the explosion that follows, everything that star was, everything it accumulated in its long life, bursts forth in a magnificent explosion, scattering itself across the sky.

And Rose, she’s drawing him in, and he’s never wanted to escape this. He never would. _Let the both of us burn_ , he thinks, _as long as it’s together_.

“Rose,” he hears himself saying. “Oh, Rose.”

She pulls him hard against her and he quickens his pace. Within a dozen strokes it’s enough: he hears her cry out and then she’s coming around him with a shout, arching, her body clutching, clutching, calling to him, calling for him. He follows with willing hearts and a groan from deep in his throat, his arms trembling as he empties himself.

After a moment, she urges him down when she sees his arms wobble. It’s a little ridiculous with him standing, but he still rests his upper body over hers; she likes the weight, he knows she does, so he doesn’t even feel silly. Instead he plants a kiss on the top of her breast and rests his cheek against her skin, closing his eyes with a sigh.

“Told you the table would hold,” she says into his hair, her voice amused and still slightly breathless.

“Rose Tyler,” he murmurs, “I always knew you were jeopardy-friendly.”

“Didn’t see _you_ saying no.”

He grins. “Well, you made a compelling argument.”

She laughs. He feels her lips press against the top of his head in an affectionate kiss, her fingers grazing along his back, stroking and drawing idle circles, and he doesn’t care how uncomfortable this might be, he could probably stay here indefinitely.

“You do know, I hope,” he says, “that the TARDIS has more than one linen room?”

She pauses in surprise, and he feels the lips against his scalp curve up into a smile. “’s that an invitation?”

“Wellll, that depends. How lucky do you feel?”

Agile fingers knead softly at the base of his scalp as she considers. “Oh, very lucky,” she says gently, and he knows she’s not talking about jeopardy. “Can’t think of anyone luckier.”

“Fantastic,” he grins.


End file.
